The Rolling Stone
by eradicari
Summary: What does a man such as William Cabot do to relax?


Peaceful days didn't come often aboard William Cabot's ship. Anybody who knew what they were talking about would tell you that Shear was one of the worst places to live – the lifestyle lived by those there much more akin to simple survival. In truth, Cabot was never truly at peace while his teammates were around – their arguments and banter filling the halls and corridors and leaving very little space for relaxation. Not to imply that Cabot didn't enjoy their company, but everybody needs a little alone time. The aforementioned alone time was especially hard to come across with how often he was needed, but he didn't mind that – it was all part of the job, he thought.

Every now and then, though, they would dock at one of the few remaining spots of civilisation on the dangerous orb. The places were enjoyable enough – most of those who live there simply want to get away from any government control, or perhaps just liked the alone feeling that hung on the planet. There would always be somewhere to have fun, for everyone. There would be alcohol to be drank, bets to be placed, dancefloors to dance on.

Only when everybody else in the crew was enjoying the luxury of those 'unlucky' enough to not have regulations forced upon them would Cabot finally sit down to relax. It wouldn't come often enough for him to have thought up some sort of ritual for the short time he had, but it had happened enough times for him to have a perfect 'spot'.

He'd sit on his captain's chair, dressed in the most comfortable clothing he could find, arms placed on the sides perfectly. His eyes would close, and then a familiar voice would ring through his ears.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" Bucket would ask, sometimes knowing the answer, sometimes genuinely curious. Cabot would never be annoyed by the intrusion. He'd have to think on Bucket's question for a moment.

"…music," he'd say, after a while, and then pause. His fingers would tap against the leather of the arm of the chair for a moment as he made his choice, but the end result was always the same. "…something relaxing." Bucket would know that a vague answer was all that he was going to get, but he knew Cabot's tastes, he always knew what Cabot wanted.

"Right away, sir," Bucket would say, all trace of his existence fading back into the ship's hardware.

The sound of Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street would fill the ship, and Cabot would never feel anything but pleased. He'd let out a light sigh as his eyes remain closed, the nirvana-like state of total and utter relaxation finally being reached for this tortured soul.

Only then, now that he was experiencing perfection, could he reflect on his life. Any feeling inside his chiselled war veteran would rise to the surface, far above the depths of his psyche that they usually hid in. Earlier on, he'd cried sometimes, but that was a thing of the past. These sessions had allowed him to come to terms with himself. He was a stronger man now than he'd been back then, no matter what anybody thought. His daughter and his wife would always matter to him – he'd always deeply regret everything that surrounded their deaths, but he couldn't let that hold him down. There were people to save! Monster's to kill!

Nirvana always led here. Being pumped, once again. That old feeling of doing **just** what needed to be done coming right back to him.

The crew would return later, and he'd be waiting for them, standing at the door with his arms crossed like the true father figure he was. One by one, they'd walk by him into the ship, and one by one, they'd get his hand on their shoulder, reminding them that William fucking Cabot was here with them. As routine as it was, it was never unwanted.

Then he'd follow them in, his hands on his hips as he spoke his final words of the night. "Alright, people. Get yourselves to bed and get some well-needed rest, we've got people to save in the morning."

These people before him were his solders – each one joining together to form the magnum opus of his existence.

He was content, but that's all he wanted to be.

That's all he needed.


End file.
